


a tether to scorched earth

by sunabolitionist



Category: Avatar: Legend of Korra
Genre: Assassination Attempt(s), Canon Backstory, F/M, Mutual Pining, Separation Anxiety, Violence, my tall wife, p'li acquires severe ptsd and depression
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:08:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25554091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunabolitionist/pseuds/sunabolitionist
Summary: The years before P'li's death, before and up to the Red Lotus.
Relationships: P'li/Zaheer (Avatar)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	a tether to scorched earth

**Author's Note:**

> hi! here's the playlist. and here's my twitter @sunabolitionist 
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/23efJwLXw71JbcAXBK9PqS?si=dI0jbjX_RQO10YBl7punXg

The blood washed over her like boiling water, her mother, her father, her brother, she didn’t know whether she was recalling them or if they had just been slaughtered— bonds, she had been told, were not something that simply ended with death. Rubble everywhere, fire tonguing the sides of the building. Pieces of metal smoldered around her with their sharp shards still showering the hot ground as they broke off from the bits of the stout building she destroyed. Her desperation left her cloaked in blood; she cauterized the wounds on her arms and hands— she didn’t flinch once. It’s hotter than fire, she noticed. The blood burnt on her skin more than the flame did. 

P’li was only fourteen. There were many quick lessons to be learned; you cannot trust your own mother, your own father, your own brother. You cannot trust the authorities, you cannot trust the living, nor the dead. They tell tales. They forge lies. Her brother told her father under hushed breath; 

“P’li can bend with her mind!” He murmured to him one night while P’li stood just behind the wall, listening closely. 

She made the mistake of telling him. Serpent. Her brother would snitch about the simplest things so he could taste the approval of his father, so he could know what it felt like to know his father’s eyes, his inglorious, simple yet conniving eyes that would drench him in a sense of achievement. His little prissy face would take on the look of a pleading pup, eyes wide, face droopy. But he was older than her and thus she wanted to be able to trust him, she wanted to know that he would defend her— that was what older brothers were supposed to do, were they not? The culture dictated that the men defended the women, that the women taught their daughters how to live properly, how to work, and the men supplemented that. That was why men married women, that was why brothers fought for sisters. To supplement, to aid in their defense. But it didn’t matter anymore. None of it mattered anymore. 

Her father’s face scrunched up in fear. He looked at his son with a curious expression. 

“And how do you know this, young man?” His voice twitched with something— P’li soon realized, quietly, while washing away her cuts and scrapes with fire, that it was  _ joy. _

“She told me!” He was thirteen, but joy tinged his voice so deeply that it sounded like his father bought him a new toy for his birthday. 

“Ah.” P’li’s father paused for a long moment, stroking his chin. “I will handle this.” He laughed. “Thank you, my son, you have brought great prosperity to this family.” Slowly, his voice lifted into a slight chuckle, then a laugh, and he shooed off her brother. 

P’li ran back to her room in fear. 

Two days passed before they came for her. 

She layed in her bed that night, her body unmoving, listening closely. She had been unable to sleep for those two days, hearing the heavy footsteps of her father across the single floor of the house. They lived in a small dwelling in Fire Fountain City— there were stories P’li was told about how things were back during the Hundred Years War, that there was a fountain of Fire Lord Ozai (who her mother would still shower with a soft honoring and wish for health after mentioning) in the center of the city that Fire Lord Zuko had ordered removed after Ozai’s toppling, that there were times when there was simply no food or water. It was odd, now that things were much better. However, it wasn’t always that simple; there were still warlords that Fire Lord Zuko worked to exterminate. They always came with their own mercenaries, their own soldiers. They were extortionists, dangerous, and always powerful. 

She heard heavy metal boots in the living room. They came closer, but slowed, measured themselves as if they were attempting to mask their position— or, as if they were taking fighting stances, moving onto lighter feet in an attempt to make a more skillful attack. 

Inhale. Exhale. She felt her chi in her stomach— it reacted, almost, to her anxiety. She felt heat near her head, near her hands and feet. Consciously, she sat up in her bed, staring directly at the door where she was acutely aware of the firebenders about to burst into her room. 

It wasn’t simply that she could hear them; she could feel their heat. They shifted the temperature of the room just enough where she could sense them coming; their body heats more than a normal person, she figured they had fire already gurgling in their palms, waiting to blast it at her, or to defend themselves from a girl who they presumed to be terribly dangerous. And perhaps she was. But she was young, brash, uncertain— but her firebending was immensely powerful, without much training outside of the few sparring matches she had with her brother in the streets (her family’s poverty did not allow for a yard or courtyard like many of the other houses further out in the city, P’li’s family lived quite close to where the old Ozai statue used to stand.) 

The door swung open. 

_ I am unafraid.  _ She muttered.  _ I will do as I must.  _ She said.  _ I will fight for my life.  _

They jumped at her, two men approached her with daggers of flame in their hands, moving to the sides of her. Another walked in slowly, almost swaggering with a set of hook swords strapped to his back. He smiled coyly, his eyes almost solemn with confidence. 

“Hello, P’li.” He said, smiling. 

She did not reply. She stared at him harshly as her hands gripped her now smoldering blanket as the two men creeped closer to her, their feet making measured steps— clearly prepared to pounce. 

“We will be taking you.” His voice was deep but she thought it petty and unintimidating, like he was a boy in a man’s body, with a man’s voice, but none of a man’s strength. 

The two men with their daggers of flame prepared lunged at her.  _ Now.  _ P’li shot off her prepared, aching flames— they blasted the two men back and her hands burnt with rage. The men’s bodies flew into the walls, the fire scorching their clothes. She didn’t think to look if it had burnt them, but upon later inspection, they were wearing chest plates under their shirts. P’li did not want to die. She felt her mouth get sour with anger— anger at her father, her brother, the world for being rife with men like this. She wanted to kill them all, and there would be no joy in it. It would be ceremonious; justified; cold, but necessary. 

  
The man in the middle was not a bender, she noted. He swung his hook swords from his back and prepared to attack her. P’li had yet to rise from her seat. 

While he ran, she marked his steps. They were uneven, as if he was failing to carry all of his weight evenly. He wore heavy metal boots but ran swiftly in them, and yet, she could tell there was either a mismatch in the boots, or something wrong with his legs. She still did not need to move. She allowed him to attack her once with his sword. Finally, she stood cautiously— her hands raised in a fighting position. P’li was scrappy, she didn’t fight in traditional stances, she stood with her fists balled, one hand high, one hand low, like the pro-benders tended to. He swung once, then twice. She felt the blade swing past her, the air sliced. Her hair hung free of a ponytail, a strand of it sliced as the blade fell down, quickly slicing her shoulder, but not long enough to make her wince. 

It took two, largely unexpected motions. P’li switched forms, she grabbed the edge of her bed, kicking down the man with a hard blast of fire from her bare feet, for a brief moment feeling the cold of his chestplate before completely burning through it with her fire. He staggered backwards, stumbling on his uneven legs and nearly falling over. Just as she had predicted, he was terribly unsteady. His flesh went undamaged, but he had to stagger to unclasp the chest plate from his body, lest it catch the rest of his clothing on fire. The second motion: P’li took her original stance as he struggled, the fire still licking the sides of his shirt. She shot two blasts, one again at his unsteady leg, then another at his chest. He staggered and fell, almost entirely engulfed in flame, squealing in agony. 

And there was nothing more left to do, she thought. There was no one left to defend herself from. Until— 

The two men she struck down stood to their feet and fired two shots at her. She ducked immediately, sensing the heat before it came. Now she was afraid. Her body felt uneasy and her motions swiftly became unsteady. They approached her again. 

“Girl! Give up! You’re outnumbered.” 

Then she saw him standing there. Her father stood there with a bag of gold in his hands, looking on smugly. She felt her stomach burn. Her head started to hurt immensely and the air around her began to burst with heat. She had only done this twice and each time she nearly destroyed a limb— but these were dire straits, this was life or death. She would rather be dead or maimed than be the servant to bastards like this. 

She sucked in a deep breath— aimed… 

One shot fired from her forehead in a perfect straight line toward the man standing at her right, it exploded at his feet. He did not fly up. His body burst into pieces. 

The other man stopped immediately, turning in utter fear. But P’li was not unphased; her eyes opened wide in terror at her ability’s power. The side of the room she fired at was completely destroyed, the wall broken open with the arid air floating in from the outdoors. He raised his hands in pleading. But P’li did not think of him; she thought of her father. He stood there in shock, his hands clutching the gold. When they locked eyes, he nearly began to run, but P’li had a different, more hateful idea— she inhaled once more— fire bubbled in her stomach and lifted through her, straight from that spot to her bare forehead, her eyes focused on him closely, unmindful of the man at her side. She fired. The blast flew straight through the door— but it hurt like hell to do it a second time; every piece of her head ached, her stomach hurt, her body burnt in every shaken point. The blast did not strike the ground. It went straight into her father, the walls around him burst open, his body was completely gone and the only thing that was left was the fire that began to burn the small pillars that held up the house. 

The final man ran in fear of her power, jumping from the small elevation of her family home and sprinting out into the middle of the city. P’li fell to her knees. 

Something cracked, crackled, something began to fall apart. The ceiling of the house started to fall. The foundations of the house started to burn. She could smell blood; it showered her, her own blood stained her skin from attacks she didn’t know she had sustained. She inhaled and began cauterizing the wounds. She didn’t know if her brother was dead, if her mother was dead. But the house began to crumble. First, the main room went, soon it would be hers too if she didn’t get out. She couldn’t move very well, her body drained from using her ability too much. She struggled to stand to her feet, her knees nearly buckling under her, her shins feeling as if they had already been snapped in half. 

The police had yet to come. Her part of the city, notably, was fairly lawless since the corruption stings hadn’t been very successful. Many of the law makers and police chiefs were paid off by the warlords. P’li refused to admit that it was luck that got her out. She refused. She ran into the city, looking to get as far away from that smoldering house as she could.

Rest is a desperate, near unachievable commodity. She can breathe still, though that did not come easy at first, her breath shorted by the amount of chi she pushed up from her stomach into her head. Thought and logic both failed to explain how she was able to do this; she had not heard of the other combustion benders, or where they were, or how they came to be. She simply knew that she could do this and because of it, she should be terribly, unabashedly afraid. But— to some extent, the feeling did not expand past her flesh. She couldn’t think it but she could feel it down to her bones, down to her stomach, down to her fingertips. 

The hunt was clear by the time she reached the edge of the city. She could sense the heat of men coming, of their feet stomping the ground and coming quickly, coming with surety and awareness. She inhaled as if she was preparing to fight. This, however, was when she decided it was time to concede. She had to run if she wanted to survive. 

And they did come, as she knew they would. 

It wasn’t much of a fight. She got through the gate and started to sprint on her bare feet, running quick out of a desperate hope that there might just be a way out; but she failed, they shot nets at her, catching her in their grasp. She struggled and thought of perhaps moving to explode them, but she realized she couldn’t. She didn’t have enough power in her; her body was too weak, her chi too disrupted. She sucked in a ragged inhale, whining like a bruised cat deer. It was an easy catch, they bragged. She did all of that, but in the end she was still just a girl, they laughed. 

It was the violent streak in her that surprised her most; she felt an undying urge to make their knees buckle in fear, to break them down, to watch the bits and pieces of their bodies fly in all directions. But it was this very feeling that struck fear in her. It made her shrink down into her body, afraid of the things she was capable of thinking, and as she now knew, capable of doing. 

They were unceremonious and quite rude with her body as they took her. They dragged her, leaving the freshly cauterized wounds on her arms and legs to get slit open again my stones until eventually the many men (who she couldn’t exactly make out from the ground) heaved her over their shoulders and into the small cart pulled by komodo rhinos. She understood this as defeat and as death. It berated her at every turn, already turning the bodies of her family into ash and rubble, already turning her into something she couldn’t recognize. Her hair stuck to her face from sweat, arid conditions being of no help. She stared at her hands and body as stabbing pain danced along the inside of her skin. Though it was only stabbing at first, it swiftly shifted into a cutting feeling from the mixture of the scrapes from the ground, from the short splinters from the shoddy cart. Breath did not come easy. She had questions, many, many questions, and she simply did not dare to ask. She imagined how it was meant to happen; she imagined blowing her own head from her body, dying an inglorious death in the middle of nowhere. The rickety cart shook as she whined in her position. 

Death seemed indelicate now, though it would have been good, simple, a breath of gentle air along the spine. She could imagine it easily, going. All of the fire extinguished, the earth scorched entirely; life torn from itself. Gentle, she thought, that there would be nothing left after that. That there would be no love in that. 

She would be alone, she thought. To fend for herself. This scared her most; she didn’t know what to do, who to trust, death felt easiest, she bade it, sang to it as the rocks bounced the cart on the way to their unknown destination. She felt only fear. Scorched earth holds no life, she thought. But a flower can still grow in its rich soil, a voice insisted. 


End file.
